When he gets back to their shared motel room, Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed watching the news, grinning ear to ear. They're on TV again, the blue light from the TV shining on Dean's pale face in the darkened room, only serving to intensify his manic smile. Sam can hear a female news anchor talk about their latest kill.
"Can you believe this, Sammy?" Dean asks, raising an arm to point his finger at the TV, finally acknowledging his presence since Sam walked in. "We're on the TV again."
Sam walks over to where his brother is sitting, and sure enough, the TV displays the motel in Ohio, patrol cars littered all over the parking lot, behind the news anchor as she spoke of the victim and how the manager had found the body. Sam can feel a grin start to spread on his face, matching Dean's. Sharp like, dangerous.
Dean's eyes are still glued to the TV, absentmindedly twirling a blade in his hand. Numerous times, too many to count had Sam seen his brother doing the same thing to their victims before he cuts them. Dean likes to tease their victims before the kill, twirling the seven-inch blade in his hand, easy and with grace he only displays when he's in a perilous mood. Sam can hear their frantic cries in his head when they cry and beg Dean to stop, before they beg Dean to just end it all with a quick death.
But his older brother is never the type to listen well to other's orders.
From the way his full lips turn upward and the way his blade loops between his deft fingers, Sam can tell Dean is just itching for the next time he can slash someone.
Later that night, when Sam spreads Dean out on the mattress, all long limbs and teasing smile underneath him, he can tell Dean is still thinking about them on the TV. Sam kisses him hard on the mouth, desire pulsating in his veins, drinking in Dean's gasps, growling low in his throat as his brother's fingers curl in his long hair, yanking him with the strength that made the warmth in his groin fan over the rest of his body, breaking his body into shudders.
"We should kill again," Dean whispers into his ear. "Soon," he half says, half moans.
Sam agrees, promising his brother it will be soon, and the next time he kisses Dean it shuts him up.
Dean was the one who seduced her in the bar, the one who leaned against the bar and called her beautiful, asked her for her name. Dean was the one who invited her back to the motel, knowing how to seduce men and women alike into bed, bringing them to their doom like a mermaid's song. He knew what they liked, knew how to flaunt his looks, how to look at them from under his thick lashes, knew to lick his plump lower lip to draw attention to the fullness of them.
Dean was the one who kissed her mouth when she tried to scream when Sam cut her skin with the tip of his knife, her screams muffled by Dean's mouth. She had tried to escape their hold, thrash in their grip, in her bounds on her wrists and ankles, but she couldn't stop her undeniable end from happening.
Dried tears staining her cheeks, her lifeless eyes looking out at nothing as Dean carefully lays her limbs on the mattress of the seedy motel room, taking her hands gently by her bruised purple wrist, moving her arms as if she were to give a welcoming embrace when the cops eventually find her body, looking like Christ on the cross with her ankles together and arms spread wide.
He moves her hair from her face, touch as gentle as a lover's. Sam watches his brother's blood peppered face, specks of red mingling with the freckles on his cheeks. He's a mess, always managing to get blood on himself, but Sam won't say anything, not when Dean looks so beautiful like that.
Sam's knife is still wet with her blood from when he carved a demon banishing sigil onto her skin. It's the same symbol their dad had in his journal, along with his drunken rambling about demons and monsters and the evils lurking in the world. Dad was always saying there were evil things out there, he just never told them humans could be just as evil. He never could imagine just how twisted his sons would turn out.
The room is too quiet now without her muffled screams, the only noise provided by the slow hum of the ceiling fan. Dean looks through her bags to find her wallet and helps himself to her bills, stuffing them into his pocket. They don't need the money, but it's Dean's trophy after the kill.
Dean looks up at him after he put the wallet in his jeans, pride on his face, happy with the work they have done. "That was fun."
Sam grins back, all dark intent. He waits until he has Dean's full attention, and raises the blade to his mouth, his eyes never leaving Dean's as he licks the blood off his knife, and Dean doesn't quite stop the low moan from escaping his lips as he watches him.
Pennies in his mouth, the blood and the steel of the blade, and Sam licks it all, feeling hot under Dean's watchful gaze, the hunger returning to Dean's eyes. It's exactly what Sam wants, to lure his brother in, to seduce him the way Dean easily seduces their victims.
It works. Dean is on him when the blade is licked clean, his tongue inside his mouth, tasting and sucking the copper from Sam's hot, wet mouth.
He feels teeth when his brother smiles into the kiss.
Sam leafs through the pages of his father's journal. He reads every word carefully, the same way he catches Dean doing from time to time, when he thinks Sam doesn't notice. It's filled with his writing, with symbols, the very ones they engrave into the victim's chest. Angel banishing sigils, anti-possession symbols, pentagrams, reaper's traps. The works. But it supplies them with artwork to leave as a calling card for the cops. Dean is proud that they have their own signature. Just like the Zodiac Sammy.
All his ramblings about demons and angels witches and ghosts, creatures out lurking in the night, searching for prey, and Dean used to hang onto every word their father said. His father, the alcoholic that Sam always held resentment for, and who Dean loved. It no longer mattered; the old man was dead, had been for a long time now.
Dean's watching the TV again, all glee when the grave news reporter tells them Sarah Johnson's body was found in the motel she had stayed in, the one where
Dean had fucked him on the carpeted floor, just feet away from her dead body.
They had left the room smelling like blood and semen; Dean's smile blinding like the sun.
He closes his father's journal, making his way to Dean. Sam tilts his head by his chin, and Dean opens up, kissing him, his fingers tight on Sam's arm.
"California," Sam said, reading his driver's license. He smirks. "I went to college there."
David looks at him with wide eyes. David's license also said he was Dean's height, but he was much shorter than that. Sam didn't call him out on it though.
"I-I have money," David said.
"Have it," Dean replied, twirling the blade in his hands, just itching to do him harm.
David's eyes turn to his brother, and Sam can't tell who he's more afraid of, him or Dean.
Then Dean craves into his chest, drawing a devil's trap there where his heart is still beating in his chest. David's screams are loud, begging Dean to stop, his screams piercing when blood ran down his belly, pooling in the hem of his jeans. Dean smirked when he was done, grabbing his chin between his fingers, like he did at the bar, when he had smiled at David and asked him if he could show him a good time.
Sam walks to them, stopping by his brother's side. He cups his brother's face and kisses him.
David looks horrified, "I though you guys were brothers."
Dean wraps his arms around Sam's neck, deepening the kiss. They ignore David for a few moments, their lips and tongue battling for dominance. Sam broke it, looking at David with a dirty grin. "We are."
They continue to kiss; David calling them sick fucks when Sam stuck his tongue in Dean's mouth, Dean's hand yanking his hair.
They left David's body to be found in the motel back in California. His skin swollen and bloody, an angry red devil's trap welted on his skin, raised and crusty with dried blood.
They're driving through New Mexico. Sam almost forgot how boring the 10 Highway could be when it comes to travelling through New Mexico and Arizona. Nothing but sand and empty landscapes until the earth lines with the clear sky. Nothing but cactuses on either side of the road, rocks, and a train track.
Dean is singing, not at all bothered by the lack of scenery on the road, drumming his hands on the steering wheel, sometimes throwing Sam a look like he just can't wait to stop and rest for the night, to get a room for them.
His smile is dirty, and it excites Sam.
They had just killed a cop. Dean did it, when the cop pulled them over, when he was driving too fast. Sam had grinned when Dean pulled to the side of the road, knowing they could've easily lose the cop. Sam sat in his seat, smiling when the officer asked for their license and registration. Dean winked at the officer, calling him handsome before he pulled out his gun and shot him point blank.
When he turned his head, he had blood speckled on his face. Sam got out of the car to check if the cop had already taken down their plates, or if he had a camera recording his own death. He did, but it was easy enough for Sam to get rid of, destroying the evidence.
They pulled the cops body back inside the car, positioned him so it looked like he was sleeping.
Then they got back on the road and drove off. Dean couldn't stop smiling.
Sometimes, Sam thinks Dean enjoys the killings, the little game they play, more than he does. And Sam likes it, a lot.
Sam places his hand on Dean's thigh, leaning in to breath in Dean's ear, and all at once, he stops singing. Sam slides his hand down his jeans, kissing his brother's
neck, and Dean pulls the car over to the side of the road, gravel and sand crunching under the tires.
The fuck in the backseat, hard and rough, the way Sam likes it, the way Dean needs it. They move each other with each other, gripping hands to fit, work around the small space, coming with each other's name on their lips.
It was too hot, but they laid in the backseat, wrapped in each other's arms, sweat collecting between their tightly pressed bodies.
Sometimes Sam gets possessive.
Sometimes Dean flirts with another man at a bar, invites him for a good fuck with a smile on his face, cocking out his hip so his shirt rides up his skin to reveal the skin of his belly, just to have Sam kill whoever Dean invites back. Sam always gets so pointlessly jealous, like he doesn't know just how important he is to Dean.
Like he knows exactly how much he means to Dean, but somehow, it'll never be enough.
When Sam gets possessive he puts a bullet through the man's head, executioner style, mouth always in a tight line. When he gets like that, he fucks Dean hard, and sometimes it's what Dean wants. He wants Sam all to himself, selfish and greedy, wants his world to be just him and Sam, driving in their car, blood in the cracks in their palms and knuckles, under their fingernails.
He wants Sam to get possessive. His world is Sam, made up around his baby brother, his baby boy. He has killed for him, would and will do anything for him.
He's sure that he will die a violent death because of it. A poetic ending for his no doubt short and violent life. They'll both leave nothing but a body count as their memory, their brief life nothing but a horrific plague on other people's lives, on the families of the victims. Everyone will ask why, and they'll have no answer except that they simply wanted to.
Because it's fun. It's all fun and games.
The game started the night Sam cupped his face in his big hands, seizing his face with bloody fingers, kissing him possessively, telling him dad would no longer touch him, wouldn't hurt him when he was drunk. It was just the two of them, just him and Sam, and they were all each other needed.
Their father was their first kill. Dean never regretted it, even if he did miss the old man from time to time. Sam told him to forget, whispering against his lips as his hands slipped under his t-shirt to touch the bare skin of his torso, wet fingerprints leaving trails of red on his ribs. Most days, Dean did forget about his dad.
Sam made sure of it.
He smoothes out her hair, golden like his mother's used to be. Long yellow locks, spread out like a halo around her head. There's blood on the pillow where her head rested, dried blood on the cigarette smelling, teal bed covers that match the walls of the sea themed motel room.
They're in Kansas, the place where his mother died in a fire more than twenty years ago.
Sam walks back into the motel room; he's finished putting their duffle bags in the car.
They are ready to leave. Dean stays on the bed though, watching the woman who resembles his mother. Sam had been too young when she died, too little to feel sorrow or mourning, but Dean remembers his mother, her gentle hands in his hair, her voice when she sang to him. He doesn't want to forget her, not like the way he's slowly starting to forget his father.
He doesn't want the cops to find her body. His mother was nothing but burned and charred bones when they found her. Nothing but ashes to remember her by.
He wants it to be the same for this woman, this woman with hair like his mother.
Sam doesn't move when Dean starts to tear pages from the bible, setting the pages on fire using the lighter he keeps in his pocket, laying the burning pages on the bed. Sam stays standing next to him while the bed catches fire, and they watch the flames grow, licking away her skin. Sam only moves when the fire alarm goes off so he can deactivate it.
They close the door behind them, content that the room with the woman will burn down. He drives, heading to the border; they need a new state, a new body, another game to play. He doesn't smell like blood this time, the smell of smoke heavy on his jacket taking its place.
Sam doesn't say anything, but he must know. He knows how Dean feels, how he thinks. Dean never has to tell him anything, because Sam just knows.
It's why they're so perfect together.